Revenge, Roulette Wheels, and Sin City
by Sisyphean Effort
Summary: Sequel to "Love, Hollow Points, and the Big Easy." In his quest to get closer to Kira, Mello makes a dangerous bet with a mob boss in Vegas. But it turns out the real danger is to Mello and Matt's own relationship. Will it (and they) survive the outcome of Mello's gamble? Mature themes, violence, sexual situations. Matt/Mello. REPOST/REWRITE!
1. Sin City

_Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note_

 _Author's note: This is a repost of a fic. that I took down because at the time, I felt it wasn't good enough. Then I re-read this about a week or so ago, and decided that it wasn't so terrible after all (not the best, but not terrible) and so I took it out of the trash where I had dumped it. But the thing that really motivated me to repost it were all the lovely reviews/comments by the author Carottal regarding my 2 fic.s "Playing Hookey" and "Love, Hollow Points, and the Big Easy." You see, this was the fic. that was supposed to come directly after those, and it was the one that was supposed to bring Mello up to canon in the series (getting in with mob boss Rod Ross). The circle felt incomplete without this one, and if nothing else, I would like for Carottal to see what I had in mind next for our dear Mello and Matt.:)_

 _So, for my complete pre-Death Note arc, please read: "Playing Hookey," then "Love, Hollow Points, and the Big Easy," then "Fear and Loathing and Chocolate" (which is the actual prologue to this fic.), then "Revenge, Roulette Wheels, and Sin City." Or, don't read any of them. Or just read this one. Whatever pleases you best..._

 _P.S. And if you've already read and reviewed this one once, don't feel obligated to do so again.:)_

Chapter 1: Sin City

 _"Oh, there's blackjack and poker and the roulette wheel,_

 _A fortune won and lost on every deal_

 _All you need's a strong heart and nerves of steel_

 _Viva Las Vegas, Viva Las Vegas..."_

 _\- from "Viva Las Vegas by Elvis Presley_

 _Mello_

The midnight sky outside their window shimmered with a thousand winking fairy lights. Neon colors blazed across the horizon, bold and electric. Even as high up as their top floor room, sounds from the streets below echoed and penetrated in a sonorous background symphony of late-night noise. Las Vegas was truly the city that never sleeps...

Mello leaned against a row of floor-to-ceiling to windows, gazing out at the landscape below. They were smack-dab in the middle of the Strip, in the middle of all the 'action.' Surrounded by a riotous mish-mosh of casinos and resorts and convention houses and churches. _Lots_ of churches. In fact, Mello remembered reading somewhere that Las Vegas had more churches per capita than any other city in the U.S. Real convenient that, finding your sin and redemption all in one place. _But could it redeem him?_

"Oh fuck, I died."

Mello turned to see Matt sitting in the middle of their king-sized bed, hand-held game in hand, eyes trained on the screen. _Some things never change_ , he thought. Matt looked like an overgrown kid in his striped T-shirt and bare feet, hair sticking up at wild angles in a permanent case of bed-head. A rush of warm feeling, which any romantic would call love, burrowed its way in and curled into Mello's heart. A heart which he had long since trained himself not to listen to-not while he was on this wretched quest to find Kira, not while he wasn't _free._..

The shrill, electronic cry of a cell phone bleated from a nearby sideboard.

Mello whisked it up and tucked it against his ear. The conversation on his end consisted of four words: "Yes," and "I'll be there." He then clicked the phone shut and flung it back onto the sideboard where it clattered and slid. Mello turned to find Matt watching him suspiciously. "What was that about?" he asked.

"I've just bought us into a high stakes game at one of the casinos."

Mello decided then and there that Matt didn't really need to know just how high the stakes were.

"Really?" said Matt. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Mello could see the questions forming in them, questions which he would rather avoid answering.

"Really," said Mello, stalking purposefully over to the bed. He then reached across and nicked the game out of Matt's hands and flung it over his shoulder. It banged against the floor somewhere behind him. Mello crawled onto the bed and claimed Matt's lips with his own, his hands winding their way into his adorably messy hair, making it into an even bigger mess. His erotic strategy had two functions: distract Matt from asking him any further questions, and-

-distract himself from the _anxiety_ , the alien feeling of _fear_ , that was beginning to slide across his nerves like sheets of moving ice...

"Mello?"

"Shhhhh..."

Mello pushed Matt back against the too-fluffy pillows, roughly pulling his t-shirt over his head in the process. He then began his assault in earnest, attacking the other boy's neck with his lips and teeth, his black painted, chipped nails scorching a trail down his sides. Matt's heavy contented sigh vibrated against the side of his head as he worked. Mello felt languid, warm arms sliding around him, encapsulating him, pulling him in close. _Like his own personal safety net._ Again, he felt that rush of warm feeling as he licked his way along the other boy's jaw line, lovingly making his way back to his lips. Another deep, melding soul kiss, and he had Matt murmuring, sighing his name into his own mouth. Mello pulled back then, and gazed into the other boy's eyes. What he saw there was love, but more: there were accusations, a searing litany of unspoken questions. _Ah, he knows,_ he thought. Mello lowered his head in an attempt to flee those burning questions. He began to delicately, deliberately kiss his way down Matt's unblemished, ivory torso, his lips touching his flesh with the hesitancy, the near-nothingness of moth's wings. Then suddenly, he felt Matt's hands clamping around his arms, stopping him, stalling his progress. Then a quiet voice from above him said:

"Mello, tell me what's wrong."

 _Hell, he'd been caught._

Mello knew that his strategy had been a complete failure. He'd been too soft, too delicate in his ministrations-not his usual M.O. at all-and that had only served to tip Matt off even more. _Damn it!_ Mello sighed and buried his face into Matt's stomach. "Don't go out with me tonight," he murmured against the tender flesh.

"What?"

"To the casino. Don't go. Stay here." Mello's face remained buried as he spoke.

"No. _No._ " Matt shook him. "Mello, look at me."

Mello reluctantly raised his head. Matt's gaze was full of despair. "What's going on?"

"It's going to be dangerous. The...the person I'm playing against-"

"Another mob boss?"

Mello nodded his head in confirmation. He didn't want to say any more.

"You can handle it, though-right? _Right?_ God, why won't you let me help you-"

"-you can't help with this one." He all but cut Matt off with this statement.

"But _why_?" Despair again in those beautiful emerald eyes...

Mello simply allowed the "why" to hang, unanswered-allowed it to hover in the air with the heaviness of a brick. With a promise of blood and broken bones.

 _Blood and broken bones._

Why, indeed...

* * *

 _Matt_

It was their biggest fight since their reunion back in the city of New Orleans.

And Matt was seething. Seething and pacing and yelling and banging on the bathroom door. The bathroom door, which Mello was currently ensconced behind. Like a bratty child, he'd locked Matt out. His withdrawal, his lack of response, was making Matt _insane_.

"Goddam it, Mello! Don't do this!"

"Just stay out of it, Matt." There was an air of defeat in his voice.

Matt didn't like Mello's tone at all. Something was wrong. Really wrong. He knew it before, when they were making out on the bed. Knew it because Mello's actions had been off-he'd been different in the way he'd been handling him. He had been too romantic, too wistful, too...

 _...desperate_.

"Why won't you fucking talk to me?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Asshole!" And Matt slammed the flat of his palm against the bathroom door. His actions were met with silence. He turned and walked away in frustration, plopped down on the edge of the bed. He glared at the cream carpet on the floor. _Why wouldn't Mello let him help him?_

The bathroom door creaked open. Matt's head snapped up, a ready glare waiting in his eyes. A glare which softened at Mello's appearance. He was dressed to the proverbial nines in tight black leather: pants and a sleeveless zippered vest-the sharp, standing collar of which was practically digging into his neck. His red and black rosary glinted like a holy beacon against a too-shiny, too sinful backdrop. He looked ready to go hustling out on the Strip. Or ready to go into battle. And Matt knew which one it would be.

"Are we going to talk about this?" he finally asked.

"No."

Matt winced. "I'm going with you," he said, a steely resolve in his voice. "I meant it, you know. When I said that I would always have your back..."

"I know."

"But...you're afraid?"

No answer.

Matt felt a sick sense of foreboding overtake him. He had never seen Mello afraid before, had never seen him in such a serious, anxious light. No, the boy he knew was completely and utterly fearless. Always was, always had been. His confidence, his swagger overwhelmed everyone- _always_ -including Matt. He relied on it, lived on it. Mello had never been the hesitant, thoughtful type-he _acted_ , all consequences be damned. And so far, he had managed to come out mostly unscathed. So why was this time so different?

He watched as Mello grabbed the car keys from the bedside table. "C'mon, we're going," was all he said.

"Unarmed?"

Mello paused by the door. "We won't make it through the casino's metal detectors that way."

Matt hesitated, but then he got up and followed Mello to the door.

And all the while, that sense of foreboding grew-like a choking, creeping vine around the bounds of his doubting heart.

* * *

 _Mello_

The drive to the casino was punctuated by a desolate, awkward silence. Mello turned up the radio in an attempt to cover it. He wanted noise; he needed noise. He needed distraction. He needed release from the fear; he needed to be in top fighting form. He knew what he had to do. He knew it, only...

 _...he was afraid to go through with it._

The radio crackled and hissed out music. He could feel Matt's mirroring anxiety, felt it sitting like an unspoken accusation, but Matt's anxiety was the result of a simple fear of the unknown. Whereas Mello's fear was the result of knowing far, far too much. He knew exactly what he was walking into. He was about to walk across a lake of fire, and there was no guarantee that he wasn't going to get scorched, get burned.

 _It's a decision that was made between you and me_

 _And the division that was lately this odyssey,_

 _Believe me_

 _I'm bad enough and I guess that we're doing fine_

 _But I'm scared of something more that is on the line_

 _Well, I got five on the five_

 _And I've been taking time_

 _Doing it all along_

 _If we keep it alive_

 _I'll ignore all the signs_

 _And keep driving home_

 _Right back to you..._

 _Right back to you..._

Mello pulled the car directly in front of a great, slanting Frank Lloyd Wright-esque fountain, right in front of the casino's valet station. The approaching valet raised an eyebrow at the bumper that was lashed into place with a frayed piece of old rope, but said nothing as Mello handed over the keys, along with a ridiculous amount of bills. Matt followed along silently. Normally, his was a comforting presence-a wanted, needed presence. But not here, not now. Not before the gates of hell...

Pale Blue neon spelled out the words "The Terrace," above the broad front entrance. Design-wise, The Terrace was one of the lesser-offensive looking casinos on the Strip. The building's lines were clean and modern, and there wasn't an over abundance of those tacky palm trees. Mello wasn't surprised by this. Because he knew the owner's method of design-all bland and sleek and urban chic. Cold and rigid and decidedly angular...

 _...like those expensive cases for electronic gadgets that he designs in his regular, legitimate job,_ thought Mello. And the fact that a freakin' gangster would bother to maintain a legitimate day-time job was just another oddity in an unusually long check-list of various oddities.

"So...who are we here to see?" asked Matt, "or am I not privy to that information?" The two of them forced their way forward, weaving their way through a sea of slot machines and craps tables and poker stations and bars. The casino was filled with people, but not overly so-it was a weeknight, after all. And there were far more glittery peacocks to be found on the Strip, and the Terrace didn't attract all that much attention. Just the way its owner preferred it.

"Roland Ross," stated Mello flatly.

Matt flicked a glance at Mello and waited. Mello could feel his look, could feel it weighing on him, pressing on him like the lever of a slot machine. Mello sighed, decided how much information to give up, and said:

"Roland Ross is the little brother of Rod Ross, the L.A. crime boss. Getting to Rod is my main objective. But..."

"...in order to get to Rod, you have to go through Roland first," finished Matt. Mello nodded. Mello was trying to get to L.A., but, like some sinister, underworld sentinel, Roland was barring the gate to the West...

Or, to put it another way, he was the ferryman you paid in order to cross the river Styx...

Or, to put it still another way, if they were standing on a chess board, then Rod would be the lumbering, slow-moving king, and Roland the versatile queen, capable of any and all movements...

Mello didn't like any of those analogies.

"There..." said Mello, and he came to a sudden stop, and Matt halted with him. Matt followed his gaze to a roulette wheel platform, back-lit with an eerie, sickly blue light, its station currently occupied by four people.

Mello started forward again.

 _"Okay, here we go..."_

* * *

 _Matt_

Matt's eyes raked across the four figures at the roulette wheel through the safety of his yellow-tinted glasses. On the far left sat a woman with retina-searing purple hair cut into a severe french bob, dressed in a black cocktail dress and knee high boots. To her right sat what looked to be a college kid, one of those urban hipster-types in horn-rimmed, Buddy Holly glasses, hair styled into a dark pompadour, wearing a trendy green cardigan and matching Converse all-stars. To his left was an intimidating giant of a man, with a shaved bald head and red goat-tee, decked out in a deep blue suit with a loud plaid tie. And to the far right sat another young man with a long pony-tail and clear round-framed glasses, dressed in a silk-screened T-shirt and jeans, currently tapping away on a blackberry he held in his long-fingered hands.

If this was what constituted a mafia entourage, then this had to be geekiest entourage that Matt had ever seen...

"So...which one is Ross? The big dude with the tie?" Matt had seen pictures of Rod, back when he'd been obsessed with tracking Mello. Back when he'd been trying to figure out his trajectory, his most likely path of destruction.

Mello smiled wryly and leaned in to whisper: "No, but that's the mistake everyone makes-I made that mistake myself, two years ago in London." Matt's eyes widened a little at this admission. "Ross is the little one in the horn-rimmed glasses."

"You're joking."

"No," and suddenly Mello stopped him with a hand on his arm. His look was intense as his eyes bore into Matt's. _Like bright, neon turquoise._ "You should turn back."

"I'm not going to leave you here with these people," insisted Matt. And he felt his own courage, his own determination, begin to rise-an answering counterpoint to Mello's own obvious fear and hesitation. He felt himself striving to be strong, in order to level out the other's emotional weakness. He was doing it without even realizing it.

 _Partners in crime for life..._

Mello sighed hopelessly. "Okay, then...promise me two things before we go up to meet them?"

"What?"

Mello's tone was unnervingly serious as he spoke. "No matter what Ross says, no matter what comes out of his mouth, DO NOT react to it."

Matt was startled a bit, but answered, "Okay."

"And second: trust that I know what I'm doing here. Can you do that?"

"I'll always trust you," Matt replied without hesitation.

"You're certain of that?"

"Absolutely," said Matt with perfect conviction. And Mello nodded at this, though his expression was doubtful. Matt then watched him as he turned and walked up to roulette wheel platform, and Matt hurried to dutifully-and protectively-follow him.

The noise coming from the platform was deafening-the roulette table seemed to have stereo speakers set in the sides of it, and it was currently thumping out some heavy 70's rock, like something from one of those cop films with all the bell bottoms and afros and porn 'staches. The four people at the table were yelling at one another over the electric guitars and sinuous, grinding bass beats:

 _When you need a friend_

 _Through thick and thin_

 _Don't look to those above you_

 _When you're down and out_

 _Well, there ain't no doubt_

 _Nobody wants you.._

 _But you're rock candy, baby_

 _Hard, sweet, and sticky_

 _Well, you're rock candy baby_

 _So hard, sweet, and sticky_

 _When you're seventeen_

 _Reaching for your dreams_

 _Don't let no one reach them for you_

 _Pull up you pants_

 _Stretch out, take a chance_

 _If it can be done, then you can do it_

 _'Cause you're rock candy baby_

 _Hard, sweet, and sticky_

 _You're rock candy baby_

 _So hard, sweet, and sticky..._

The moment Mello stepped up to the table, Ross turned and yelled over the din: "Wheeler, turn that thing off!" And the kid with the pony-tail reached over to a nearby remote-without ever looking up from his blackberry-and switched off the speakers. Total silence. Somehow, it was worse than the music.

"So-you're finally here," said Ross in a soft-pitched, merry voice. His tone was light, affable even. As if they were all just friends, chatting and hanging out together. His eyes, however, told a different story: they roamed over Mello's approaching form with the scaly, cold-blooded eyes of a reptile, with a possessive, invasive, hungry scrutiny that made Matt's stomach do flip-flops. Matt's reaction was natural, instinctual. He felt nauseous. His gut knew he was in the presence of a sadistic, vicious predator-despite the camouflage of Ross's meek appearance and trendy clothes and friendly tone. Of that he was utterly certain. And Ross's undisguised, predatory stare also made him certain of something else:

 _This man meant Mello deep, personal harm..._

* * *

 _A few years earlier..._

 _Richard Ross was the leading Don of the west coast. He had two sons: Rod and Roland. Rod, the eldest-as expected-followed dutifully in his father's footsteps. He dropped out of high school and led heists and gang assaults and ran drugs with the best of his father's foot soldiers. He worked hard and managed to carve a place for himself within the criminal underworld, through sheer intimidation and brute force. Rod wasn't afraid to use the bargaining chips of his fists, nor did he hesitate to put a couple of slugs in a man's brain, if needed. It was all just business to him. Namely, his father's business, which he intended to one day claim as his own. And all through his mercurial rise in the ranks, his father remained proud of him-of all the detestable, horrid things he had achieved. So much so, that the Don awarded his eldest son with the city of L.A., to rule over and do with as he pleased._

 _But as for Richard's youngest son..._

 _Roland was the complete opposite of Rod. Small and delicate, with an artist's sensibilities. Whereas Rod hadn't finished high school, Roland went all the way. He went to Savannah's College of Art and Design, and earned his degree there. A fact which caused the rest of the family to snicker and shake their heads behind his back. Rod especially. "It's an embarrassment," people would hear him say, "being stuck with such an artsy, pansy-ass kid brother." It was believed that Roland would never be able to contribute to the family business. He was simply not the type. And so Richard, the father, hung his head in shame, feeling nothing but a sad disappointment in his youngest son. It came as a relief to him when Roland declared his intentions to go off to Europe after college, in order to complete his Master's degree at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland. Better to just have him out of the picture, his father thought. Better to save the family's reputation from any further embarassment._

 _So it came as a complete surprise when Roland, like the true prodigal son, returned home three years later, and proclaimed himself ready to join the family business. He had brought with him a loyal entourage of European miscreants: an oaf of a Scotsman named McKinnley, a London girl with strange (then blue) hair named Gretchen, and a Welsh techno nerd named Wheeler. Roland told his father that he intended to take the city of Las Vegas for his own. His father thought this was absurd. Vegas was the territory of Richard's long-time associate, Albert Weiss, and Weiss would burn in hell before he turned the command of Sin City over to some puny, young upstart!_

 _And so the struggle began..._

 _Roland Ross began conducting a war of attrition on Albert Weiss's heart and soul that secretly made all the other bosses in the near vicinity cringe with fear. His methods were brutal. Roland Ross had three tenets in life which he followed unerringly, the first being from a great philosopher who said, "Men may differ in their virtues, if any, but they are alike in their vices." This tenet formed the basis of most of his criminal transactions, which consisted mainly of bribes and sex and drugs. All the things that men desired. The second tenet came from the immortal question, "Is it better, as a leader, to be feared or to be loved?" Roland's answer was a mixture of both. He took Gretchen's two little sisters out of the brothel they'd been trapped in and put them through school, with full room and board. He made sure McKinnley's mother received the best treatment available for lymphoma when she grew sick. Wheeler had been talented, but penniless, living on the streets, until Roland took him in. Roland could be the charming savior when it suited him, and it won him the unswerving loyalty of his followers, in a way that he knew intimidation and fear could not. He was nothing, if not calculating. He wore several masks. He was the lackadaisical, happy-go-lucky university student when it suited him. He was also a design geek who created casings for gadgets for a world-wide electronics firm. He was also a generous and empathetic soul to those closest to him._

 _And he was a demon from hell to those who dared to cross or impede him in his progress..._

 _Then, of course, there was Roland's third-and favorite-tenet: always strike for the heart._

 _And so that's how he approached his battle with Albert Weiss. Roland bought a run-down casino in the middle of Vegas called the Terrace and set up shop there. Like a spider in a web, he plotted. Nothing was off-limits; nothing was out-of-bounds to him. He began his first strike with Weiss's teenage daughter, Rachel. The poor girl had the misfortune to wind up drunk and incapacitated at a Vegas frat house, where she was raped by several masked assailants who took turns filming the whole sordid incident. The footage was then placed on the web for all to see. Roland then went after Albert's wife, Darla, whom, he found out, took demerol shots for crippling migraine headaches. Roland paid the doctor to up the amount of the dosages to lethal levels. This act led to Weiss finding his beloved wife, prone and over-dosed on the bathroom floor of their home, close to death. When Weiss finally found out that it was Roland behind all his misfortunes, the Vegas boss threatened retaliation over the phone: "I will kill your whole entire goddam family, you sick little son-of a-bitch."_

 _And Roland had answered calmly: "Go ahead then, Albert. Nothing would please me more."_

 _And the scary part was, he meant it._

 _To Roland, a man who loved nothing had no weaknesses to exploit. And Roland didn't give a shit about his family. What had they ever shown him-had ever given him-other than their open disappointment, their disdain? The truth was, Roland was a stone-cold sociopath who cared for nothing, and no one. His only joy in life, it seemed, came from inflicting intolerable pain-both mental and psychical-on others._

 _It took time-weeks-but little by little, bit by bit, Roland Ross was able to steadily chip away at everything that Albert Weiss loved and held dear, until the Vegas boss was forced to yield. The night came when Weiss showed up at the Terrace, broken and beaten, to beg for Ross's mercy. To beg for what remained of his family. Roland seemed to be pleased by this act of supplication. And feeling generous-or what to Roland passed for generosity-he gave Weiss a choice. He would spin the house's roulette wheel, and if the ball ended up on red, he would let Weiss go the easy way-by a large bottle of pills which he sat in front of him. But if the ball landed on black...well, then-he'd have to go the hard way._

 _And Roland didn't bother to explain what the "hard way" entailed._

 _So when the ball rolled and clinked and finally ended up on the black square, Weiss didn't even flinch. Roland merely shrugged and said, "Looks like tonight isn't your lucky night, Albert." And then:_

 _"McKinnley, if you please..."_

 _A sharp rap on the back of the skull, and Albert Weiss's whole world went black..._

 _He awoke hours later, supine on a cold tile floor, a strange hissing sound coming from somewhere above his head. Snatches of conversation floated through his shaky, barely-held consciousness:_

 _"...macchiato is an Italian word meaning 'stained' or 'marked.' See how, when you pour the espresso through the top, it makes a lovely gold film. Ah-ah! Don't stir it-you'll ruin the layers."_

 _"You make the best drinks, boss."_

 _"Of course I do, Wheeler. I take the art of espresso making seriously, as I do all the arts. And speaking of which, it seems my current masterpiece has finally decided to wake up."_

 _Albert Weiss raised his head, his movements as weak as those of a new born calf. He tried to focus on the voice before him-which was obviously Ross's-but his vision kept blurring in and out, like a camera lens that refused to focus. After a few moments, Weiss realized he was lying on the white, spotless tiles of a large, stainless steel kitchen. And Ross, in a red designer cardigan and matching sneakers, stood behind a wooden island that served as the platform for a giant, gleaming espresso machine. The sound Weiss had been hearing was the irregular hiss of the steam wand, which Ross was currently cleaning with a blue dishcloth._

 _"Mornin' Albert. Have a nice nap? I was just making the crew here a few drinks to get them started."_

 _"Why are you doing this?" Weiss managed to rasp out._

 _"Is that a rhetorical question? No? It isn't? Then I'll tell you why: I want the city of Vegas, plain and simple. And you're standing in the way of my getting it. C'est la guerre..."_

 _"Huh?"_

 _"War, Albert. This is about war. And in war, there are casualties. And I'm not the prisoner taking kind... Right, kids?"_

 _There were noises of assent all around, and Weiss realized that Ross had his whole demented crew with him._

 _Weiss watched Roland thump the shiny arm of the espresso wand. "Normally, the milk of a good hot drink should be steamed anywhere between 160 and 180 degrees," he said conversationally, not looking at Weiss. "But for you, I'm gonna crank this baby up to 220...just to be on the safe side. Gentleman?"_

 _Weiss had no idea what was coming next. One minute, he was on the floor, the next he was being hoisted by the arms toward Ross, who had the calmest, most peaceful expression on his face, just before-_

 _-he jammed the end of the steam wand into Weiss's right eye and hit the lever..._

 _The screams that came out of Weiss's mouth were inhuman. They were beyond pain. The former crime boss bucked and seized under his assailants' grip like a man in the midst of a seizure. Cackling, feminine laughter filled the room. "That is one frothy cappuccino, boss," said a woman's voice._

 _Weiss was allowed to fall, moaning in agony, to the white-tiled floor. The scent of burning flesh filled the room. Another voice said, "Oh, damn, where's the Febreeze when you need it?" More cackling laughter followed._

 _Weiss felt a welcoming blackness begin to overtake him..._

 _"Oh no you don't, Albert," said Ross. "Gretchen, hand me that syringe with the adrenaline shot in it." Weiss felt something sharp and metallic jab him in the leg. He could feel a presence looming over him, could feel the threat he could no longer see. And then an evil voice whispered directly into his ear:_

 _"Don't go into shock just yet, Albert. I'm not done playing with you. Not by a long shot. I can keep this up for days."_

 _"Boss, I think you're going to need some Clorox for this steam wand," said the steady voice of Wheeler._

 _"Hey, you're the germ-a-phobe of the house-you clean it," said a voice that had to be McKinnley's._

 _"He is so not hot, boss," said the woman's voice-Gretchen-again. "Can't we get something better to play with?" Her tone was petulant._

 _"Quite right, Gretchen-quite right" answered Ross. "Why don't you go down to the Strip, ma ange noire, and pick us up something pretty for later? Something hot and in the Gothic line. You know my tastes. Here, take this cash and the unregistered car..."_

 _The din of conversation went on undeterred around him as Albert Weiss lay on the ground writhing in unbearable agony. And then to make matters worse, he heard Ross's voice say, in a clipped, chipper tone:_

 _"So...are we ready for round two then, Albert?"_

 _Albert Weiss held out for three more days, before his body finally succumbed to the endless gambit of tortures that Roland Ross's creative, devious mind concocted for him. Ironically, on his death, little Roland-formerly known as Rod's "pansy-ass kid brother"-took the city of Vegas, unopposed, in complete triumph. And, after finding Weiss's system of checks and balances in its criminal operations lacking, he set out to rearrange the running of Vegas like one would an HR department in hell. Ross vetted and handpicked everyone who worked for him, right down to the lowliest errand boy. He scrutinized and rejected and scrutinized some more. He only slept four hours a night, had an IQ that was off the charts, and worked hands on, at both of his jobs, night and day. His energy was boundless, tireless-as was his appetite for mental and physical sadism. Some of the people who worked for him thought him unusually kind, a saint. Others thought he was the spawn of Satan. The truth was, he was both. And no one ever knew which version of Roland he was going to get..._

 _And to add to the irony of ironies, Richard Ross now declared that he was finally proud of his youngest son..._

End Chapter 1.

 _The two songs used in this chapter are "Five on the Five" by the Raconteurs, and "Rock Candy" by Montrose. Chapter 2 will be posted on Monday, followed by chapter 3 on Tuesday._


	2. Roulette Wheels

_Author's note: there is the mention of some OCs from my previous DN stories. They shouldn't hinder the reader's comprehension too much, though, if you haven't read those. Just throwin' that out there._

Chapter 2: Roulette Wheels

 _"One day I'll get to you, and teach you how to get to purest hell" - from "Just" by Radiohead_

 _Matt_

"I was starting to get concerned," said Ross. "You skipped Houston." His glasses flashed electric underneath the bleach of the casino lights. His voice was colored with a sympathy that seemed real, that seemed genuine, only-

 _-there was still that cold-blooded, calculating look in his eyes that set emergency sirens to screaming inside Matt's head._

"Well, sometimes a guy needs a holiday," replied Mello casually, taking a seat in a tall leather swivel chair across from Ross's entourage. Matt noted Mello's shift in demeanor, how perfectly in control he seemed, so different from earlier. If he lacked any kind of confidence, he certainly wasn't letting it show. He looked as solid as a rock, and Matt couldn't help but admire him. Matt found himself slipping quietly into the seat behind Mello, playing close attention to the party across from him.

"I'm sorry about that thing with the brass knuckles," said the woman with the purple hair, addressing Mello.

"No harm, Gretchen," said Mello. "As you can see, my face has recovered just fine. And that was more than two years ago." Matt watched the woman named Gretchen smile broadly, and it was obvious to him-much like with Ross-that, despite her words, she was not one damn bit sorry.

"What can I say, a girl loves showing off her jewelry."

"Gretchen's impulsive," interjected Ross. "But has my best interests at heart. She's a good guard dog. My little Eliza Doolittle of pain." And the two shared a look-a smile-of collusion, of sociopathic solidarity. Again, Matt felt his stomach do flip flops.

"But we're getting off topic here with this jaunt down memory lane," said Ross firmly, swiveling his chair back around to face Mello. "Let's talk business. Things on offer."

"Offer?" asked Mello. "What, you want to offer me another job?"

Ross laughed gaily at this. "No, no, mon ami-not this time. I'm way past that. And I don't take rejection well. Do I, kids?"

Muttered affirmations came from all around the table.

"No, let's talk, instead, about what your former boss has offered _me_ ," said Ross, his tone suddenly serious. "Our dear Lady Z from London. She warned me of your approach days ago. Seems like you've been a rather...disloyal subordinate? And disloyalty is not something to be tolerated-"

"-she tried to off me first. Hence the retaliation," gritted Mello.

"-oh, you British. Always eating your own. Like a serpent swallowing its tail-a never-ending cycle of dog-eat-dog. No wonder you lost your empire."

"-I had no choice!"

"-Of course not. You would have ended up the same way as the rest of your former associates. Like Puck, Hector. Where are they now? Oh, that's right. Dead. The Lady Z had them killed off ages ago."

"-That has nothing to do with me!"

"Your boss doesn't understand the kind of currency it takes to buy loyalty. Look before you. I have the same crew I had two years ago. I understand the different kinds of currency. Your boss does not-hence this problem with insubordination."

"What do you _want_?"

"Ha-now we're talking currency!" exclaimed Ross, a manic sheen glazing over his eyes. Matt watched the volley of statements fire back and forth like mis-aimed rounds of shrapnel. He realized that he really didn't understand what Mello's life had been like during his four year sojourn within London's criminal underworld. He had probably learned more about it in the last two minutes than during his whole year of background research. The many subtleties, the shifting loyalties. Following the conversation was like trying to follow a winding river, filled with twists and turns, and jarring rapids.

"I'm thinking," said Ross, steepling his fingers together beneath his chin in a parody of deep thought, "that you want to barter using that bag of stolen ice you're carrying. Worth about two million pounds-yes?"

Mello merely glared.

"Thought so. Which would be fine for anyone else here in America. We're generally a very ethnocentric bunch, Americans. Most bosses don't give a shit about what goes on beyond the continent. However...I'm not 'most bosses.'" Ross's gaze turned icy. "I have 'friends' in a lot of places. England, specifically-"

"-So what did she offer you?" Mello cut in.

Ross kicked off the base of the roulette wheel with his sneaker, sending his chair into a spin. He seemed to be speaking to the ceiling, as it revolved. "You have a nice fat bounty on your head. Not nearly as fat as that bag of ice, though. Which your former boss would like to have back. To the point of offering me a piece of it if I just ship you right back to England-"

Matt watched Mello go completely still at Ross's words. Again, there was that sinking feeling in the pit of Matt's stomach...

 _Trust that I know what I'm doing..._

Ross's chair slowed to a halt. His gaze leveled on Mello. "But, I have my own forms of currency, you see. Which, of course, is a completely foreign concept to your lovely Zelda. So I told her I'd think about it. What I would actually like to do is play a different kind of game entirely...so, you like roulette?" And here, for the first time, Ross's eyes alighted on Matt. And stayed. And burrowed. And Matt, valiantly, tried not to react-

 _DO NOT react..._

 _-_ But he couldn't stop his own returning glare, or the fear quaking at his knuckles. And slowly, ever so slowly, Ross's lips curved up into an unpleasant smile. Then his eyes flicked to Mello, and Ross said softly, ominously:

"He's afraid for you, you know. Which is going to make the little wager I'm going to offer you _ten times_ more fun than it would be otherwise..."

* * *

 _About 2 years earlier..._

 _Mello traversed the corridors of the large English estate in complete awe. Wammy's House had certainly been impressive, but seemed like nothing compared to the sheer wealth and volume of antiques and pieces of art currently taking up space in the broad hallways of Thadeus Winchester's country abode. The place had wings, for god's sake. Like freakin' Buckingham Palace. Mello was currently in what was snottily referred to as the 'southern wing' of the house. A few minutes earlier, Hector had shoved a briefcase into his hands with the order to take it to someone called Roland Ross. And getting to Ross's room had required actual written directions. When Mello had grumbled about going, Hector had said, "Low man on the totem pole gets the delivery boy jobs." He had then slammed the door in Mello's face._

 _Well, he wasn't going to be the low man on the totem pole for long..._

 _Mello stopped before a door with a brass plaque on it which read "Ivy Room." Only houses with wings had rooms with names. Mello pounded on the door. After a few seconds, the door was opened by a guy with horn-rimmed glasses and a skinny tie and sneakers who looked like he should have been working tech support. "I've got a present for your boss," said Mello._

 _The guy in the glasses raked Mello from head to foot before saying, "Are you the present?"_

 _Mello glared and hoisted the briefcase, "No, this is. Where's your boss?" Mello was seriously starting to feel pissed off._

 _The guy in the glasses raised an eyebrow, but didn't move. From behind him appeared a young woman with electric blue hair, in an off-the-shoulder, fuchsia dress and heavy Doc Martens. "Are you the delivery boy?" she said, "Why don't you bring that case inside?" Mello hesitated. The two people in front of him gave him a bad vibe. But, orders were orders. So..._

 _...Mello stepped inside the room._

 _Inside was a spacious sitting room. Like the rest of the rooms on the estate, it was overflowing with fancy antiques. There were two other men in the room, seated around a low coffee table. One sat on the couch, the other on the floor. The one on the floor was a thin lanky guy with a pony tail, who was currently engrossed in an electronic device that he had laid out in pieces on the table. "This is too cool, man. I love military proto-types. Your other job is the best, boss." The kid didn't look up as he spoke._

 _Mello assumed that he'd been speaking to the big guy in the suit who was sitting on the couch. Mello walked forward and dumped the briefcase on the cushion next to the man, and said, "I was told to give this to you by Zelda."_

 _Sudden laughter cut across the room._

 _"And what the hell is so funny?" asked Mello. The big guy in the suit just held out his hands and shrugged. Suddenly, Mello felt a presence behind him, and a hand reached out and pushed him down to a seated position on the couch. He felt his anger coiling like a snake. Then Tech Support was there, leaning across the back of the couch, staring him in the face._

 _"What's your name kid?" said Tech Support._

 _"Mello."_

 _"Hello, Mello. I'm Roland Ross," said Tech Support, and held out his hand for a shake. More cackling laughter erupted inside the room. Mello realized he had made a serious error in judgement. He then shook Ross's hand. When he tried to pull back, Ross didn't let go._

 _"Tell me, Mello. Have you ever considered a change in careers?" Ross's appraising gaze slid across Mello. A gaze which made him feel rather...uneasy. Like he was a prime cut of beef on display at a butcher's market. And Ross still hadn't released his hand. Mello suddenly wished he had worn his gloves._

 _"Why? Are you offering me some sort of job?"_

 _"Why not?" said Ross, tilting his head coyly to one side, "I like to think that I know raw talent when I see it. And I could use someone like you on my...staff."_

 _"Oh, yey?" said Mello, eyes turning flinty as he suddenly got the gist of Ross's sentence. "Listen buddy, I'm not going anywhere near your 'staff.'" And with that, Mello yanked his hand away, which started a whole domino effect of violent reactions-_

 _-Ross got flipped over the couch..._

 _-and Mello felt something hard hit him in the face, hard enough to make him see stars. And send him sprawling down to the floor..._

 _Mello was dazed, but still in control enough to yank out one of his knives. He then felt a heavy boot in the middle of his chest. There was the feel of a blade being pushed up against his throat. "You wanna have a knife fight with me, Pretty Boy? Well c'mon then, let's go!" The voice belonged to the woman with the blue hair._

 _"Heel, Gretchen!"_

 _"C'mon, boss," whined Gretchen. "Let me take him. It's soooo boring out here in the country."_

 _"No, he's not part of the game-"_

 _"-get off of me you crazy bitch!" yelled Mello._

 _"-Boss!"_

 _"WILL EVERYONE JUST CALM DOWN AND HAVE A NICE CUP OF SHUT-THE-FUCK-UP!" Ross yelled across the din. Everyone in the room suddenly froze, including Mello. Ross then grabbed a deadly looking assault rifle from behind one of the antique vases. "We are here to have a nice, civilized shooting party in the English countryside, people. Granted, we're doing it "Most Dangerous Game" style, but he's not the quarry. Some traitorous Irish shithead is. So Gretchen-let the kid up. We want to keep relations with Lady Z all nice and cozy, yes?" Ross brandished the rifle threateningly._

 _Gretchen reluctantly backed away. Mello saw that, in one hand, she held a slim, curved Spanish blade. A blade which she expertly spun and flicked closed. In her other hand, she held a pair of nasty brass knuckles. The thing that had connected with his face. Mello realized he had made another serious error in judgement. The guy in the suit was obviously not the 'heavy' around here._

 _Mello jumped up and backed his way to the door. Ross and Gretchen glared, while the other two men simply continued on chatting amongst themselves as if nothing had ever happened. "I'm just...gonna go now," said Mello weakly._

 _"Yes, I think that would be best," said Ross icily._

 _Mello nodded and grasped the door handle. Before he'd gotten through it, though, he heard Ross say:_

 _"I hope we meet again sometime, Mello. Under more pleasant circumstances, of course." He could hear Gretchen snickering somewhere behind him._

 _Mello felt a knot in his stomach form at those words. He closed the door behind him and all but fled down the hall, like a pack of wolves was chasing after him. He felt slimy-a feeling that he was unused to experiencing. It made him feel queasy. He subconsciously rubbed the hand that Ross had been holding against his pant's leg, as if trying to rub off the other man's unwanted touch..._

* * *

 _Mello_

"You know, there is a slight difference between European roulette wheels and American roulette wheels. American wheels have extra zeroes on them," explained Ross casually, as if they were simply carrying on a normal, every day conversation. "It gives the house an extra advantage, though. Tilts the percentage in my favor. But, since I'm such a nice guy and a good sport, let's just call red and black, shall we?"

"What are we playing for?" Mello cut in.

The calculating look was back on Ross's face. "You shouldn't have come here, you know. You should have went straight to L.A. To my dear older brother-"

"-who says I want to go to L.A.?"

Ross laughed mirthlessly. "I had a long chat with your former boss about you. You're a very ambitious sort. Even I can see that. And my dimwitted older brother would make an admirable puppet..."

Mello snorted at this assessment. "What of it?"

" _I'm_ not my dimwitted older brother," said Ross, frowning. "Numbers or no numbers, I only make bets that favor me. I play to win. Now, what kind of options do I offer, kids?"

"Bad and Worse," the party at the table chanted, as if this were an oft-repeated mantra.

"That's what you get when you play with me. So let's talk about options. However, which one's 'bad' and which one's 'worse' will depend entirely upon your point of view. So, one: I ship you back to Zelda, like she asks, where she'll no doubt dunk you sunny-side up in the Thames a few times before pumping a couple of slugs into your brain for your blatant disloyalty-"

Mello could feel Matt shifting in the chair behind him. Could feel his tenseness. Mello refused to look at him. He had to keep his focus on Ross, and Ross alone. And pray that Matt wouldn't react, as he had directed him.

"However, diamonds aren't really my kind of currency," said Ross. "Really. That option, to me, falls under the heading of 'things done out of interests of international cooperation,' more than anything. Very boring. Which brings us to option two: You come upstairs with me, of your own volition, and give me that good time that I wanted two years ago-"

"-the _fuck_ he will!"

Mello closed his eyes. _Why, Matt, why? Why can't you ever just listen to me?_ Mello willed Matt to be silent. But, as fate would have it, his will was being totally ignored...

Ross's deviant smile slid into place. "You have an objection to that, Ginger? Oh, but I'm not done with my terms yet. The very best part." His eyes were on Mello, but his finger pointed at Matt. "I also want _him_ to come with-"

"-no fucking way," Now it was Mello's turn to object.

"Oh, but I insist."

"No. Fucking. Way." Mello repeated firmly. His safety-his dignity-was one thing, but Matt's was a whole other matter. And he hadn't foreseen Ross throwing Matt into the pot.

 _He had fucked this up royally..._

Mello and Ross were stuck in a glare-off. And Ross's glare was unrelenting. It was obvious he would not change his terms. Mello's brain scrambled to come up with a suitable solution. Which lead him to say what he said next:

"Fine, but you don't lay a finger on him."

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Matt had jumped up from his chair and was violently shaking Mello's shoulder, "Mello, you don't really mean that-"

"SIT DOWN MATT," And, without making eye contact, Mello reached out and shoved Matt back down in the chair.

He hated this moment. _Absolutely hated it._

"Calm down, Ginger. It's not a bad offer, really," said Ross, smiling maliciously. "And I'm willing to let your friend go on to L.A. after this. On to play with my idiot older brother. After I'm done playing with _him_ , of course." Ross's eyes latched hungrily onto Mello.

He heard Matt whisper beseechingly behind him:

"Please don't do this..."

But all Mello said was:

"Spin the wheel."

* * *

 _Matt_

Matt couldn't believe his fucking ears. Had Mello just gone completely insane? They were playing for _those_ two options? Two options, the terms of which did not make Matt one least bit happy. In fact, right now Matt was the exact opposite of happy. He was enraged. He was infuriated. He wanted to strangle Ross. He wanted to strangle Mello for playing along with Ross. He was grasping the arms of the chair he was sitting in hard enough to put dents in the upholstery. He was just one short comment away from going completely ballistic-

"Call it," said Ross.

"Black for upstairs."

"How sweet. Maybe you don't dislike me so much after all? It's your favorite color-yes?" Ross's eyes slid over Mello's outfit in close, intimate appraisal.

 _You-lay-one-slimy-finger-on-him-and-I-will-personally-make-sure-you-die-the-most-horrible-painful-excruciating-death-possible,_ thought Matt.

"Red for jolly ol' England, then," said Ross. "McKinnley, do the honors."

The wheel clicked into motion...

All around Matt swarmed the constant buzz and hum of the inner-workings of the casino: the metallic clack of slot machines, shouts for drink orders, hoots of victory, and the low wails denoting devastating monetary loss. All of these things faded off into background, though, as the little silver ball traversed the gutter of red-and-black squares. A preternatural stillness overtook the table as the wheel clicked round and round...

 _Round and round..._

Matt held his breath. He watched Mello, whose expression remained as calm as the untouched ocean. _What the hell are you thinking about over there?_ thought Matt. _Why are you playing this game?_ Mello's words from earlier came back to him, like a long forgotten echo: _Trust that I know what I'm doing here._

Yes, but just what _was_ he doing here?

Surely Mello wouldn't just let himself be carted back off to England without a fight. And surely he just wouldn't go upstairs with Ross for some quick fuck before heading off on his merry way to Los Angelos?

 _Would he?_

The thought that he would do that, with Matt there, made his stomach lurch and his heart ache...

The whole table watched as the little silver ball bounced and careened into a slow, fitful crawl.

Clink.

 _Red._

Clack.

 _Black._

Clink.

 _Red again._

The silver ball surged forward, gave one final, half-hearted lurch...

...and finally settled on...

 _Black._

End Chapter 2.

 _2nd Author's Note: I'm going to wait and put up chapter 3 on either Thursday or Friday, because I'd like to take a shot at rewriting it before posting, and maybe give it a bit of a tastier end (if you know what I mean)._


	3. Revenge (or Artemesia's Judith)

Chapter 3: Revenge (or Artemisia's Judith)

 _"I thought that betrayal was your favorite word..."_

 _"No, no...cruelty. I always think that has a nobler ring to it." - from "Dangerous Liaisons"_

 _Matt_

It was like falling into a nightmare. A nightmare from which he could neither escape, nor wake. Reality had turned into a dark dream-all warped and twisted and false-like the images found inside a fun house mirror. Only there was no fun to be had. Far from it. No, there was only this: the anticipation of unavoidable pain. This remote, sinking feeling. Of despair, of doubt, of disbelief. Of numbness, of nothingness. And Matt-despite these numbing, crippling feelings-found himself following dutifully behind Ross and Mello, shuffling without conscious thought toward the casino's elevators. He felt nothing, nothing of the physical world except for perhaps the guiding hand on his shoulder belonging to the woman Gretchen. The tightly clenched hand which kept him moving forward and, paradoxically, bound him into place. Which was good, because without the restraint of those grasping fingers, Matt would have just come to a complete halt in the middle of the casino floor and started screaming: _Has everyone just completely lost his fucking mind around here?!_ _What the hell is wrong with everybody in this place?!_

 _This couldn't be happening..._

Yet it was happening. _We should never have come here,_ thought Matt. _If only I had known, I would have never suggested it._ But that was the rub, wasn't it? Mello wasn't one for sharing his plans, his thoughts. And Matt wasn't sure if it was because Mello had spent the last four years on his own, without anyone to confide in, or if it was simply because Mello didn't deem him worthy enough to take into his confidence. _The way of the lone wolf._ Matt couldn't bear the thought of Mello not trusting him. Hadn't he proven his loyalty enough over these last few weeks? Shown himself willing to do everything and anything for him? Wasn't he good enough? Or perhaps that wasn't it at all. Maybe the problem was he was _too_ loyal, _too_ trusting. Maybe Mello thought he was such a trusting, loyal dog that he would just sit on the sidelines like a good boy while Mello spread his legs for some filthy, wretched gangster...

Matt felt his jaw automatically clench and his hands unconsciously ball into fists as he thought about it.

Even now, standing within the cramped confines of the elevator-the elevator which was taking them all up, up, to whatever assigned ring in hell they were all currently bound for-Matt felt his own suppressed fury begin to rise. Rise, unbidden and unrestrained, as he watched Ross place proprietary hands on the exposed skin on either side of Mello's waist, grasping him from behind, whispering intimately into his ear. Something which Matt could not hear. _Don't touch him; he's mine!_ Jealous, violent impulses made his heart lurch and his hands shake. And, as if sensing an impending struggle, the hand on his shoulder gripped him even harder. Then he heard Gretchen whisper near his ear: "Steady on, Ginger." Matt resisted the urge to just turn around and punch the bitch. But something told him that wouldn't be a wise move. The fact that she was here and not one of Ross's boys led Matt to believe that there was probably something more to the woman than what met the eye. Namely, something _dangerous._

Just as the elevator shuddered to a stop, Ross turned to glance over his shoulder at Matt, his expression one of malicious delight, of complete and utter victory. _He's enjoying this, the sick bastard-and my pissed off reaction is just making it all the better for him._ Matt tried to remain composed, tried hard to not show any emotion, but that would have been like asking the sun not to rise, would have been like asking the moon to just fall out of the sky. The urge to lunge forward and place both hands around Ross's neck and squeeze the god forsaken life out of him was hard to ignore. Every muscle, every nerve twitched with the need to do it. And yet Matt remained frozen, helpless. He looked over at Mello, who had his back to him. Ross still had his hands on him, but Mello wasn't reacting. _Do something,_ thought Matt. _Why in god's name are you submitting to this man so easily?_ The Mello he knew-or thought he knew-would have _never_ submitted. Ever. Not to anyone or anything. He was a fighter, a tiger. He didn't give up or give in. Matt couldn't understand what was happening here. _Was he really going to go through with this?_ he thought. _Was Mello so completely worn down by his fight to get to Kira that he had decided to just go and take the easy way out of this-which was, apparently, to lie back and think of England?_ Matt's head-his thoughts-floundered in a swampy marsh of possible, contradicting motivations.

The four of them got off the elevator and walked in a single file death march toward one of the top floor suites. Ross stopped to slide a key-card into the high tech lock, and he opened the door and flipped on the lights. The room was very much like his and Mello's own, but it was larger and gleamed with a sort of futuristic whiteness-its chic, angular furniture accented by sleek, silver underpinnings and an overall antiseptic cleanliness that belied the actions that were about to take place inside of it. Matt felt himself being pushed over to the side, toward a long wall with a large computer work station and an ostentatious looking aquarium filled with multi-colored fish. He was guided-by Gretchen-over to a desk and pushed down into a chair. All these actions barely registered. Because he was staring-glaring-at Mello, who was being guided over to a large king sized bed sitting on a raised dais on the opposite wall. Matt felt a large knot of anxiety wedge into his stomach, lodge inside his throat. His heart pounded like mad, beating out a thunderous refrain of denial. _No, no, no!_ his mind screamed. But outwardly, he was silent. _Don't do this,_ he mentally begged his lover from across the room.

But it seemed it was too late to go back now...

It was quiet in the room, but deafening inside his own head. He barely heard the metallic 'click' of the handcuffs being placed around his wrist; he didn't notice Gretchen's actions until it was too late. His focus had been elsewhere-namely on the bed. And now he was tethered to the desk. _Idiot!_ he mentally berated himself. _You're losing your shit, along with your focus! You can't help Mello that way._ But it didn't seem like Mello needed any help. No, it seemed like he was just passively following Ross's every directive, without complaint. Nothing-not a word, not a sound of protest came from him as Ross pushed him down into a seated position at the foot of the bed. Mello's face was completely blank, impassive. Then Ross stepped back a few feet and said:

"Well, go on. Take it off..."

There was the flicker, the barest hint of feeling as Mello reached a seemingly hesitant hand up to the zipper on his vest...

 _No, no, no!_ screamed a voice inside Matt's head. His hands gripped the edge of the desk he couldn't get away from, gripped it hard enough to cause him actual physical pain. Better that, than the psychic pain that was currently slicing, lancing its way through his heart...

Meanwhile, Gretchen sat at the other end of the work station, casually munching from a bowl of Rocher chocolates as if nothing were amiss...

The moment Mello had his zipper in hand, was about to, in fact, yank it down, Ross held up a hand and said, "Ah-ah. Go _slow."_

"What?" said Mello flatly. "You want some kind of _show_?" It was the first time he'd spoken since leaving the roulette table.

"Sure-why not? This _is_ Vegas, isn't it?" Ross answered in a patronizing tone. He then turned toward the computer station: "Gretchen, why don't you turn on some music?"

The purple-haired woman reached up to the shelf just above her head and tapped on an i-Pod that was enclosed within a blindingly white stereo dock. The speakers on the either side of it thumped to life with a raucous string of psychedelic guitar riffs:

 _I run so far away from you_

 _Don't matter where I've been_

 _Run around the world from you_

 _And here you are again_

 _You're a real jawbreaker_

 _a real crook, obscene_

 _I'd call you a heartbreaker_

 _But I reserve that for nicer things..._

"Well..." Ross prompted, turning his full attention back to the bed, back to Mello. He rotated his hand in the air in a showman's gesture which said: "Carry on."

Matt watched as Mello's lips quirked upward in a vague sneer. It was the most blatant emotion he'd shown since the start of this travesty downstairs. Instead of undoing his vest, he brought his gloved hand up to his mouth. And, gripping the leather material between his teeth, he began to tug the garment off one finger at a time. Once it was off, he flicked it carelessly onto the floor by Ross's feet. The act was condescending, almost rude. Ross didn't seem to care though. He was watching Mello like a cobra: upright, hypnotized, and swaying. And any moment now, he would strike.

Mello lifted his other glove. He stripped one finger, then two, then three. Again-once it was off-he threw it onto the floor at Ross's feet. And through it all, Mello didn't look over at Matt, not even once. It was almost like he wasn't there, like he was a non-entity...

Mello brought his bare hand up to the zipper on his vest. And, with a calculating slowness, he began to pull it downward, in a parody of a strip tease. A parody, because the face above the leather revealed nothing, showed nothing, even as more and more naked flesh came into view-

"STOP!"

Mello's hand hesitated at Matt's sudden outburst. Ross turned his head briefly, just long enough to soak up Matt's look of profound misery. And, observing the other's expression of utter defeat, Ross's deviant smile widened significantly. Matt knew that the revelation of his own mental agony was only feeding Ross's sick obsession. He knew that his anger, his jealousy was adding more fuel to an already out-of-control, sadistic fire. Knew that his outburst was giving Ross just one more sordid little piece of pleasure to revel in. Yet Matt couldn't stop himself. He was screaming inside, like a pained, dying animal...

A heavy gold foil wrapper smacked him in the side of the face, momentarily distracting him from the obscene passion play taking place over by the wall. It bounced off and landed on the desk's milky white surface, glinting like fairy dust. He turned to glare at Gretchen, who just looked at him from the opposite end of the desk and silently shook her head. _No!_ _Bad Dog!_

Matt clenched his fists in helpless, frustrated anger. The foil had stung, had hit him hard enough to leave a mark-

 _-Hard enough to leave a mark?_

Matt suddenly turned his attention to the foil wrapper sitting innocently on top of the desk. And he saw, tucked away discreetly within its crackling gold folds, a tiny, glint of precious silver...

Matt's heart began to trip hammer within his chest. The foil was within easy reach of his hands. His head snapped up, and he looked at Gretchen. The woman didn't return his gaze. Instead, she reached up and turned up the volume on the stereo:

 _Run, desire, run_

 _A sexual being_

 _Run him like a blade_

 _To and through the heart_

 _No conscience, one motive:_

 _Cater to the hollow_

 _Screaming feed me here_

 _Fill me up again_

 _And temporarily_

 _Pacify this hunger that's so cruel_

 _So grow_

 _Libido throws_

 _Dominoes of indiscretion down_

 _Falling all around_

 _In cycles_

 _In circles_

 _Constantly consuming_

 _Conquer and devour..._

"...you can leave that on. I don't mind it."

Matt's head turned back at the sound of Ross's voice. Mello had his vest off and was now hesitating over his rosary-the rosary he never took off for _anything_. The slim, metal cross flashed bright silver against the pale gold of his skin...

 _A flash of silver..._

Matt looked back down at the gold foil wrapper. Then, over the din of the stereo speakers, he heard Gretchen say to him: "You like art, Ginger?"

"What?"

"Art. Paintings. That sort of thing. Me-I love them," commented Gretchen dreamily as she carefully licked splotches of chocolate from her deceptively delicate fingers. She sat on top of the desk, with her leg dangling and one knee-high boot swinging casually back and forth. "My favorite is the artist Artemisia Gentileschi..."

Matt just shook his head at her as if he couldn't believe this conversation was actually taking place.

"Her paintings of Judith are particularly beautiful," continued Gretchen, undaunted. "You know the story of Judith, right? Her town was being besieged by an invading army, so she went to their camp as an emissary to negotiate a surrender. But, seeing that the general of the army was captivated by her-was moved by her beauty-she took advantage of this. She seduced him, and then, with the help of her maid Beulah..." and here the woman paused to suck some more chocolate off her thumb.

"...she cut off his head!" Gretchen finished the story with a wide, enthusiastic grin.

Matt just stared at the purple-haired woman as if she were crazy. But then a slight metallic sound from the opposite side of the room claimed his attention. And, looking over, he saw Ross standing between Mello's legs, his hands working at his belt buckle-

Matt was overcome by an indescribable, uncontrollable fury. He grabbed the gold foil from the desk top, popped out the little silver key, and with his free hand unlocked the cuffs. Gretchen made no move to stop him. He was all focus, all cold, devious calculation as he reached back across the desk and unplugged the slender, long-necked lamp from the wall. Then, without a word, without hesitation, he got up and moved stealthily over behind Ross, looping the end of the lamp's electrical cord around his knuckles as he went-

Ross had pushed Mello back down on the bed, was crawling on top of him. Mello's eyes met Matt's briefly over the man's shoulder, just before-

* * *

 _Mello_

 _-_ Matt crept up behind Ross and using the lamp's electrical cord like a noose he looped it over the man's head and _pulled!_

 _"You goddam motherfucking son-of-a-bitch!"_ Matt spat as he pulled the noose tight, choking off Ross's windpipe. Ross gasped and flapped around like a fish thrown onto a river bank, but his struggle, his attempt to fight, was completely useless. Not with Matt in his current state. Mello had never seen such a crazed look of murderous rage on the red-head's face before. It was terrifying. It was incredible. It was not like Matt. Not _his_ Matt, anyway.

Matt drove his knee hard into Ross's back, slamming him face first down into the mattress. His grip on the electrical cord was white-knuckle tight. Mello tried to cover Matt's hands with his own, tried to take the cord from him. "Let me finish it," he said softly.

"Back off, Mello," Matt growled. And then he gave the noose another vicious yank. A choking, gurgling noise issued from Ross's throat. His face had turned a dusky shade of blue.

Mello didn't know what to say or do. There was nothing for him to do, except wait idly by while Matt finished killing Roland Ross. Mello grabbed his vest from the floor and put it back on. He saw that Ross had ceased to move, was now completely still, yet Matt continued to sit with his knees digging into his back, continued to hold onto the make-shift noose around his neck. Matt's expression was still one of cold, remorseless fury.

"He's dead," Mello said to him at last.

Matt still didn't move. Mello looked around the room, waiting. Sometime during it all, Gretchen had taken the opportunity to slip away. But that was okay; she was no threat to him...

"He's dead, Matt," Mello repeated. He reached out and shook the red-head's arm. Matt started and blinked, like a man awakening from a deep trance. Mello watched him look down at the dead body on the bed. And then ever so slowly, he got up and slid his feet to the floor.

"Are you...okay?" asked Mello. Matt's face was unreadable, frozen. Several heartbeats passed before Matt answered:

"I want to leave."

Mello just nodded. "Alright, we will. There's just one more thing I've got to do before we go..." And Mello walked over to Ross's bedside table and opened the drawer. He recoiled a bit at what he saw there-and began to thank his lucky stars that he didn't actually let the guy have his way with him. Mello then pulled out a wicked looking serrated blade from the small white table. His determined gaze met Matt's numb one from across the bed.

"I'm going to take his head," said Mello.

* * *

 _"Why do you suppose we only feel compelled to chase the ones who run away?" - also from "Dangerous Liaisons"_

 _Matt_

He had simply walked out.

He hadn't wanted to stay inside the room, not while Mello was busy cutting off Roland Ross's head. Not while he was still so goddamn angry. Not while he was still unsure with whom he was angry...

He needed to go outside and clear his head.

And so Matt had left without a word. He had simply crept away. The last thing he'd spied before going out the door was Mello leaning over the bed with that god-awful knife, a look of cold-blooded, reptilian determination on his face as he grasped Ross's hair by the scalp-

Matt shook off the image. He couldn't believe any of the shit that had just happened. It all seemed so unreal, so dream-like. No, actual reality was out here, in the middle of the casino hall. With all the blinking neon lights and the clanging slot machines and Bacchanalian hoots of joy and amusement. That's what he had originally wanted. That had been his real intention in coming here. Not the sordid, bloody mess he was currently involved in. Just what the hell was happening to him?

He had murdered two men in cold blood over the mere space of two weeks. All because of Mello. Mello-who was like an infection, a parasite inside his brain. Mello, who made him do things he wouldn't normally do. He was like a drug, and Matt was completely addicted to him. And just like someone on a drug, he ended up doing all these crazy things...

Matt walked by the geometric fountain in front of the casino. Walked by it and headed on down to the Strip. He didn't bother looking up to see where he was going. He just kept walking...

" _Matt_!"

Matt stopped at the sound of his name being called. And looking back, he saw Mello jogging toward him from down the street-a beautiful, drug-like hallucination in black leather. And yet, he was real. Almost too real. He came to a halt just a few feet away from him. The two of them stood facing one another on a cracked and broken sidewalk outside of a noisy Irish bar. The pub's neon sign flashed red and green across Mello's face, dappling his skin in rainbows. There was a lost look in his eyes, one that normally would have moved Matt to take him in his arms, but this time Matt didn't move. What he said instead was:

"You're a complete asshole, you know that?"

"Yes."

"I can't believe you didn't warn me about all this shit beforehand."

"No."

"I thought we were partners, Mello. _Partners._ And partners tell each other things."

"I couldn't tell you my plans. Not for this."

"And why the _fuck_ not?"

"How was I suppose to say it?" Mello raised his head, a hardened look covering his face. "Hey, Matt! I'm going to go over to this casino owned by a sadistic lunatic who wants to fuck me. And then, when he gets me up into his bedroom, all 'in flagrante delicto,' I'm gonna-"

"- _Shut up_!"

"There's no way in hell you would have gone along with that-"

"-you're damn right, I wouldn't-"

"-which is kind of my point, Matt. This had to be done. _Had to_. This was a job-a very discreet job, done under contract, for Rod Ross-"

" _What_?"

"Rod hated his younger brother. Feared him a little, I think. He wanted him gone-wanted him out of the picture-and I offered to make that happen for him. All without his dear Papa ever knowing it was him. Now, I'm taking his head to L.A., to Rod..."

Matt laughed mirthlessly in response to all this information. "I can't believe you. Plotting and scheming all this time. And Gretchen?"

"I really do have a stolen bag of diamonds from Zelda. Worth about four million in American dollars. I used it to pay off Gretchen." Mello sighed. "I'm gonna be completely broke now, except for the bounty I'm going to collect from Ross."

"And tell me, just how _far_ were you going to let Roland get with you before making your magic 'move'?"

"God! I can't believe you are still hung up on that..." muttered Mello.

"Oh, I'm definitely still 'hung up on that!'" Matt said, mimicking his words.

"That wasn't fun for me, Matt," Mello said in a low, steely voice. Matt could see the angry little vein pounding vividly against his left temple; it seemed to throb in time with the flashing neon. "Do you honestly think I wanted that asshole's hands on me? Do you know how much self-control that took-and may I remind you, that 'self-control' is not, and has never been, my middle name here..."

Matt had no answer for that.

"Well?" prompted Mello.

Matt lowered his head. "I honestly thought for a second there you were going to let him..." he let the words trail off miserably.

"What?! God, no! No fucking way! That asshole wasn't getting his dick anywhere near me-" Two girls in bright yellow flounced skirts exiting the bar swiveled their heads in tandem at Mello's words. And immediately burst out laughing as they disappeared down the sidewalk.

"Mind your own goddam business!" Mello yelled behind their backs. The door to the bar was stuck open, and loud, acoustic music filtered out into the night like a light through the clouds:

 _I wanna sit you down and talk_

 _I wanna pull back the veils_

 _And find out what it is I've done wrong_

 _I wanna tear these curtains down_

 _I want you to meet me somewhere_

 _Tonight in this old tourist town_

 _And we'll go..._

 _Low rising_

 _'Cause we've gotta come up_

 _Low rising_

 _'Cause I fear we've had enough_

 _Low rising_

 _'Cause there's no further for us to fall_

 _Low Rising_

 _All, for the love of you..._

* * *

 _Mello_

"You know, it's funny-I had a noose on me, too. It was the only thing I could think of that would make it past the metal detectors. But you got to use yours first..."

Matt was still glaring at him. He was still angry-furious even-though he'd confessed to absolutely everything. _Everything_. The four feet of space between them seemed more like an ocean: cold, vast. Impossible to cross.

Something had to give.

Finally, Mello said: "Matt, don't hate me."

A sharp bark of derisive laughter cut through the air. "That's the problem, Mello. I don't hate you. Far from it. In fact, if anything, I love you _too_ _damn much_."

Mello bowed his head at this, partly to hide the small smile that was now playing at his lips. It was stupid how those words could move him like this, could make him feel like an innocent school boy on a playground, experiencing his first crush, the very first taste of love. A kind of innocence he thought was long lost...

"I love you, too," he said with complete, unadulterated feeling. He then crossed the empty space between them and took the red-head into his arms. He kissed him with a laser-focused passion, with a soul-driven lust that demanded everything: his body, his mind, his soul. It was a kiss which said: _Stay with me. Stay until the end. No matter how this turns out. Whether I succeed or fail. I want to live with you; I want to die with you._..

The kiss broke. There were catcalls and shouts from passing cars, from other people on the street, all of which Mello ignored. He could feel Matt's gloved hands slide into his own, tugging, pulling him away from the prying eyes of the Vegas streets. Matt backed him into the alleyway next to the noisy Irish bar and with a strength that Mello found surprising, Matt slammed him up against the bar's dirty bricks, kissing him with a violence that overwhelmed him like a sudden wave. It was intoxicating. Intoxicating, because it was usually Mello who was the more forward, passionate one, the one who was in control of all their lustful couplings. But not this time. This time it was different. This time it was Matt pulling at his belt, forcing his tongue into his mouth, taking him with the force of a blitzkrieg. _His Matt._ Mello let him. And he loved it.

He loved every dirty minute of it.

* * *

 _Matt_

It was a kind of forgiveness. But it was forgiveness that came with a price.

Matt was just as surprised by his actions as Mello was. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was Mello's voice next to his ear, low and erotic, whispering all the wicked things he wanted Matt to do to him. And Matt complied with every request. He had never felt so turned-on and desperate and dominant all at once. It had never been this way between the two of them. But Matt found himself acclimating to the new role easily as he pulled off his right glove and brutally shoved three of his fingers into Mello's eager, willing mouth. He blocked out the fact that they were mere feet from the sidewalk, that he could hear the pub door opening and slamming shut, could hear people laughing drunkenly nearby. The public setting only added an element of danger to their indiscretion, an extra spiciness to the dish. _A bitterness to the sweet._ After Mello finished sucking on his fingers like his life depended on it, Matt shoved his hands down the back of his leather pants, going for the gold. Mello hissed as he inserted one, two, then three digits, his chest cavity vibrating along with the bass line coming through the pub's wall. Matt knew that the bricks, his hands, all of it had to hurt, but Mello took every bit of it, took Matt in, and his acquiescence only served to spur him on. When he leaned down and whispered that he was going to fuck Mello right there against the dirty alley wall, Mello only responded with a breathless, "Please."

* * *

 _Mello_

With nothing going for him but spit and animal determination, Mello wrapped his legs around Matt's torso as he braced himself against the wall, braced for Matt's inevitable invasion. He did not disappoint. Neon colors danced over the bricks as Matt pounded into him, a kaleidoscopic grid of electric reds and greens. Matt sucked at his collarbone, biting him, claiming him. Mello's head thumped uncomfortably against the bricks as he felt himself lost to the sensation of Matt inside him, the beginning thrill of that special spot inside of him getting played, pushed, in just the right way. A way that would make his spine go rigid and his vision go white and his insides collapse into jello. Closer and closer it came, higher and higher it built, with each brutal, calculated thrust. Mello's eyes rolled back into skull and his head fell back. "Matt, I'm gonna-"

"-don't you dare come yet, Mello. I'm not through with you-"

"-but, Matt-"

"No buts-" There was a gasp and Matt lifted his head and looked into Mello's half closed eyes, his face turning green, then red, then green again. Mello gripped his shoulders, riding him harder, faster until-

* * *

 _Matt_

He tried to hold out. He did his damndest to hold out. But he just couldn't, not with Mello looking at him like that, riding him like that-

His orgasm hit him so hard that his knees almost buckled and he and Mello nearly ended up in a pile of trash bags stacked haphazardly by the wall. Shivers of pleasure racked his body as he felt Mello convulse around him, waiting as commanded for Matt to finish first. Slowly, gracelessly, Mello let his legs slip to the ground where they instantly gave and he was tossed against Matt, grabbing on for support. He was surprised to hear laughter issuing from the Russian's mouth. Then Mello said, "Goddam Mr. Jeevas, how you still manage to surprise me. That was the best make-up sex EVER."

The question lurking behind that last seemingly innocent sentence hung in the air, in Mello's eyes. Eyes which asked: _They had made up, hadn't they? Surely they weren't still fighting, not after that?_

Matt answered him with a wide grin. He grabbed Mello in an affectionate bear hug. "Hey, I'm parched. What say you and me go into that pub over there and order drinks?"

They exited the alley, arms linked, heads tilted together in genial, post-coital conversation. "You know you got that backwards, right? You're supposed to buy me drinks _beforehand_."

"What can I say? I like to color outside the box."

"You mean the lines?"

"Exactly."

"Why my dear Mr. Mail Jeevas, I think I love you."

"Do you? Enough to let me go to L.A. with you? Enough to really, truly be partners?"

Mello froze on the sidewalk. Then he put his hands on Matt's shoulders and looked him in the eyes and said:

"Partners. Lovers. Best friends. Through L.A. Through Kira. Through everything."

"Through the end." Matt nodded.

"Through the end," echoed Mello.

 _Through the end…_

 _End/Fin._

 _Author's note: Thanks everyone who read and reviewed this piece, especially Carottal! I went back and gave it a more special ending for you guys! And a special thanks to my beta Jorgmund Piper-I loved the new word choices you put in. Thanks!_


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